


Marksmanship

by comtessedebussy



Series: Strippers n' Assassins 'verse [5]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Bottom Castiel, Branding, M/M, Marking, Minor Character Death, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Possessive Behavior, Rough Sex, Scars, Top Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-21
Updated: 2013-05-21
Packaged: 2017-12-12 12:04:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/811411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/comtessedebussy/pseuds/comtessedebussy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel knew he was a liability. He also knew Dean had enemies. With those two facts, he really should have expected Crowley to come out of nowhere to put two sets of loyalties to the test. And yet it all came as a surprise.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Marksmanship

As promised, Dean took him to the shooting range.

It was an incredibly frustrating experience. Dean helped him choose a gun – starting him out with a Glock pistol - and instructed him in loading it. He helped Castiel adjust his stance, standing behind him to position Cas’ arm and his body. He placed his hands on Castiel’s hips to adjust his position, and Castiel found that he was a lot less interested in the gun in his hand and a lot more interested in Dean’s body behind him. Dean was tantalizingly close as he adjusted Cas’ aim, his breath tickling Castiel’s neck as he spoke.

Then Dean stepped away, and Castiel felt like he’d lost something. He forced himself to concentrate on the shot.

It turned out that he was a natural. Not that he hit the bullseye, not at all, but he was a lot closer to the target than Dean was expecting. The gun’s recoil surprised him the first few times, sending his bullets flying wildly, and then Dean was there, adjusting his grip, holding his hand steady as he fired the next few shots. Eventually he became used to the feel of the gun in his hand, learned to hold it correctly without Dean’s constant aid. He still found it strange to be holding a gun instead of having one pointed at him, but eventually he grew accustomed to that too.

In fact, eventually he learned to hit the center of the target several times in a row. Dean was impressed, and his praise came in the form of rough, possessive kisses right there, in the shooting range.

And then it got frustrating again.

They were in the shooting range, as they were daily, practicing. He was, if he said so himself, pretty damn good by this time, but Dean insisted that he still needed daily practice. He hit the mark several times in a row, before looking back to notice the way Dean had come to stand behind him, snaking one hand under his T-shirt.

“ _Dean,_ ” Castiel hissed as Dean pressed himself against his back, landing a kiss on his neck.

“Come on, Cas, hit the target,” Dean said, with no indication of letting up. His mouth traced out a pattern of kisses on the back of his neck.

Castiel attempted to concentrate, but, fuck it, that was Dean’s _mouth_ pressed against his skin, kissing him, holding him close and – _fuck._

Castiel threw his head back, leaning into Dean. Immediately, he felt Dean stop, freeze.

“ _Dean,_ ” he complained.

“Hit the target, Cas.”

Castiel sighed, lifting his gun and firing. The first bullet went astray as he attempted to predict Dean’s next move, but the second hit the target.

He felt Dean’s body press against his again.

“Good. Now do it again,” he whispered in Castiel’s ear, moving his lips to kiss the skin just beneath it.

“Dean, I –“

“Control, Cas,” Dean murmured, lips still against the skin of his neck. “You have to learn control. Now shoot the damn gun.”

It just wasn’t _fair,_ though. Dean knew his slightest touch sent Castiel completely to the edge. He didn’t even have to _try._

Sighing, Castiel gathered together the remnants of his self-control and forced himself to concentrate on the target. He’d hit it so many times before, so many times that the gun was almost like an extension of his hand. He went through the familiar motion of aiming, attempting to drive all thoughts of Dean’s lips from his mind. He wasn’t going to think about the way Dean was still holding him and kissing the back of his neck, or breathing against it –

He shook his head, clearing his thoughts. The target. Dean’s hands roamed under his shirt as he pressed against Cas, but he forced himself to ignore the pattern his fingers traced out. He focused on the target, on the feel of his arm and the gun in his hand. There. He aimed, and pulled the trigger with a careful precision.

The bullet went directly into the target.

“Good,” Dean murmured, pulling his T-shirt aside to kiss his shoulder.  His stubble rubbed against Castiel’s bare skin, causing him to shiver delicately. “Again.”

Again he forced himself to focus. Again he cleared his mind until the only things he saw were the target and the gun in his hand. Again he fired. This time the bullet hit just outside the middle of the target. Close enough.

“Good,” Dean murmured again. “Control is very important, Cas. It doesn’t matter what else is distracting you. You have to be able to hit what you’re shooting at no matter the circumstances.”

Castiel lowered the gun, reloading it as Dean talked. “You’re horribly frustrating, you know that?” he asked.

“I know. You’ll thank me later.”

Castiel didn’t bother asking him when “later” would be. Dean might be teaching him to shoot, but there wasn’t really a point to it. Dean was still the one holding the gun every time they went out on a job, though he often allowed Castiel to carry a gun. “Self-defense,” he’d explain. Cas didn’t really bring it up.

Their practice sessions, though, continued to be frustrating. Just when Castiel thought he had the hand of it, though, Dean would invent something new to distract him, to challenge him, to remind him that he wasn’t perfect at this.

“Come on, Cas,” Dean murmured, standing behind Cas as usual and trailing one hand down to cup his crotch. Castiel let out a strangled “Dean -!” as Dean began to move his hand.

“Hit the target, Cas,” Dean ordered, his tone lethal and arousing.

Castiel wanted to cry in frustration. It was already taking all of his self-control not to rub himself against Dean’s hand. He just wanted to surrender to the man holding him so tightly and already making him feel so _good._

“If you hit the target, I’ll let you come,” Dean whispered.

“You bastard – “ Cas began.

“I know.” Dean sounded cheerful. “Come on, Cas.”

He was already uncomfortably hard by this point. Feeling utterly ridiculous, he lifted the gun and attempted to point at the target. All of his concentration, however, was unhappily focused on Dean’s hand and not rutting against it. None was left for actually aiming.

“Dean, I – I can’t.” He confessed.

“Yes, you can. Come on, Cas.”

Cas fired the gun, though it had absolutely no chance whatsoever of hitting the target. The bullet flew wildly somewhere, followed by the next.

“ _Cas,_ ” Dean growled in disappointment.

“I’m _trying_!” he snapped. Dean’s movements let up, thankfully, and he tried again. It was only on the second try that he actually hit the damn target. (“Good. Again.” Dean ordered).

It wasn’t so hard after a while, Castiel realized. It was no worse than the time Dean had fucked him there, in the strip club, and then made him wait for what felt like ages. It was no worse than holding himself back when Dean fucked him again and again, he reminded himself.

He even became proud of his ability after a while. He wanted to make Dean proud, show him what a good teacher he was – and he did. Dean had taught him to be so good. Maybe, Castiel thought, Dean would even let him perform some of the kills himself. One day.

Then it all went to Hell.

He got kidnapped.

They wanted Dean, he knew that. He was only a way to get to Dean. He was a liability, he always knew that, a liability that Dean should never have taken with him.

It all started out so peacefully. The two of them, sitting in a bar high above a city of skyscrapers and sipping cocktails. He remembered watching Dean’s face, so happy one moment, turn sour as a lemon  the next as he caught sight of something behind Castiel. “What is it?” he’d asked, alarmed.

“Crowley,” Dean muttered without an explanation, jumping up. “We have to get out of here. _Now._ ”

They’d had the brilliant idea of splitting up. Confusing the people after them. Dean went one way, he another, agreeing on a rendez-vous. Castiel ran down flights and flights of back stairs, hoping and praying that Dean would get out safely. Three flights from the exit, though, he ran into resistance. A lot of it. He drew his gun instinctively, thinking he now understood what exactly Dean meant by self-defense, but there were just too many. He fired several shots, but they were on him, wresting the gun from his grip and manhandling him.

They took him away, and Castiel couldn’t help breathing a sigh of relief. If they got him, that meant they didn’t have Dean. He was the bait, he had no doubt of it. But Dean had gotten away. Dean was safe. Dean could leave.

He had no idea where they took him, as they blindfolded him (Castiel almost wanted to laugh at the irony). When they undid the blindfold, he found himself in a darkly lit room, forced into a rickety chair. Looking around, he could make out little of the room in the semi-darkness.

Shifting in the uncomfortable seat, he touched his face gingerly. He could feel the swelling, the blossoming bruises, from where Crowley’s lackeys had thrown a few punches at him to make up for missing Dean. There were a few on his ribs, too. They were, however, the least of his problems at the moment. He watched Crowley appear, out of nowhere, seemingly, walking with a confident stride.

“Castiel...” Crowley drawled. “That is your name, isn’t it?”

Castiel didn’t respond.

“There’ve been rumors flying about Dean Winchester getting himself an…assistant. Or a liability, as you like. I’d almost say he’s losing his touch….” Crowley trailed off.

Castiel smirked.

“Amused, Castiel? How does it feel to be a liability? Pretty soon, Dean Winchester will walk through those doors when he comes for you, and he’ll be a dead man when he does.”

Castiel smiled, raising his eyebrows. “You’re under the mistaken impression that Dean Winchester cares enough to come back for me. In fact, at this moment, he’s going as far away as possible while you waste your time with me.” His tone was cold, calm, even. One could almost say he’d learned something from Dean’s mannerisms.  

“Really, Castiel? Is that why you’re so happy? Because the man you abandoned everything for is leaving you to die?”

“If he did anything else, he wouldn’t be Dean Winchester,” Castiel pointed out calmly.

“Hmm.” Crowley leaned over, bringing their faces close. “I think you’re bluffing.”

Castiel stared directly into Crowley’s eyes and shrugged. “As you wish.”

“And while we wait,” Crowley continued, twirling what Castiel realized was a knife, “I think we’ll amuse ourselves.” He gestured, and two of his lackeys released Castiel from his rickety chair to manhandle him to a table. He struggled, on principle, but it was useless, as their strong arms held him down. Crowley appeared at his side, cutting away his suit slowly. He seethed internally. This was one of his favorite suits, one that Dean had helped pick him out.

“You must be pretty messed up for Dean Winchester to take an interest in you,” Crowley said, trailing a knife slowly over his bare chest. For the first time in his life, that act did absolutely nothing to arouse him.

“Tell me,” Crowley requested politely, “how often does he fuck you at the point of a gun?”

Castiel raised his eyebrows. “Every single time,” he lied.

Crowley continued cutting away his suit, slowly, expertly, still trailing the knife over Castiel’s skin.

“Then I’m sure you’ll enjoy this,” he suggested, pressing down with the knife. It cut deeply, forcing Castiel to exhale sharply in pain. He could feel blood pooling on his chest.

“What’s the matter, Cas? I thought pain was how Dean Winchester got you off?” he asked, watching as Castiel clenched his fists. He felt Crowley trail the cold blade slowly down, down…Castiel froze, but Crowley seemed uninterested in the more sensitive part of his body.

“Strange, he hasn’t left any marks on you….” Crowley said suggestively as his knife found the inside of Castiel’s thigh and pressed down.  “Looks like I’ll have do it for him.” Castiel let out a strangled noise as the knife sliced his skin open easily. He gripped the edge of the table, forcing himself to breathe, as Crowley sliced the second leg to mirror the first. He paused to admire his work.

“Perfect,” he said contentedly, watching as Castiel bled. “I think Dean Winchester will love it.”

“Get your hands off him, you bastard. He’s _mine.”_ The voice came from behind Crowley. Dean had come for him. Instantly, Castiel found himself manhandled to his feet and held up (he was pretty sure he’d fall if they made him stand up on his own). One of Crowley’s lackeys held him, a gun pressed to his head.

“Dean. How charming of you to join us,” Crowley said, his tone as welcoming as if this were a tea party.

“I’m just here to take care of a little business,” he said, drawing his gun. “Like that liability over there,” he said, pointing it at Cas.

Castiel closed his eyes and waited.

He heard the gun fire, but the expected death did not come. Instead, he felt the man holding him up fall to the ground, and nearly followed him. His legs just refused to hold him.

“You bastard!” he heard Crowley shout. He opened his eyes. There were gunshots, all of which Dean managed to miraculously avoid. He had had the brilliant idea of taking on all of Crowley’s lackeys, all five – now four – of them, and, miraculously, he was succeeding. He fought with speed and precision, knocking guns away and throwing punches. Two bodies fell to the floor. Then, as Castiel watched, helpless to help Dean, the two remaining men got the better of him. He watched Dean double over from a punch to the gut as the second man grabbed him. Together they held him, as Crowley watched.

“Dean…” Crowley drawled. “What was that nonsense?”

“Let him go, Crowley,” Dean demanded. “You’ve got me now.”

Castiel stared, processing the words slowly. They didn’t make sense.

Crowley waved a hand and one of the men punched Dean. He winced, spitting blood, and went back to glaring daggers at Crowley.

“You don’t get to bargain with me, Winchester. You’ve been a bloody pain, and I finally have the chance to get rid of you, slowly and painfully. Starting with your weak spot over there,” he said, pointing at Cas, who was still on the ground next to the dead body.

 “Go to Hell, Crowley,” Dean spat.

“Been there, done that,” Crowley replied.

“You’re stealing my line, you son of a bitch.”

Crowley shrugged. “I do that. Now…” he approached Dean, staring down at him. “I think we’re going to have _so much fun_ together.”

Castiel watched the banter as he slowly retrieved the gun that the dead man beside him had dropped. Crowley had gone back to ignoring him, evidently convinced that he was currently helpless and unthreatening. That was their one chance, he knew.

He straightened up, raising the gun. His body protested loudly; his legs begged him to just fall down, and his cuts bled and bled. Aiming the gun caused several disparate spots in his body to protest loudly, but he pushed it all away. Control. That was what Dean had taught him. That’s what would save them now.

He pulled the trigger and shot Crowley straight through the heart.

The gunshot was the loudest sound he had ever heard, followed by the biggest two-second silence he had ever experienced. Everything froze as the other people in the room watched Crowley fall to the ground. Then, in a move that was lightning fast, Dean broke away from the two men holding him, reducing both to heaps on the ground with a couple well-placed kicks and punches.

He walked over to Cas, who sagged against the table, wishing desperately to be lying on the ground instead. Cas took in the sight of him – suit disheveled, face bruised, lip bleeding. Castiel had never seen Dean look so hurt, and yet he still looked like the most lethal man Castiel had ever met. Including the man who had been slicing him apart minutes ago.

“You came for me,” he breathed, looking at Dean.

“Did you think I wouldn’t?” Dean asked.

Castiel didn’t know what to say. He looked up at Dean in uncertainty.

 “You stupid son of a bitch, don’t you ever do that again,” Dean said.

“I won’t,” Castiel promised.

“I thought you were dead, you bastard,” Dean told him angrily.

“I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, I know. You all right? Can you walk?”

Castiel gestured at himself helplessly, bruised and covered in blood, before venturing an optimistic “Maybe?”

Without another word, Dean picked him up, bridal style. Cas sputtered. “I’m not a _princess,_ Dean,” he protested.

“Shut up, you fucking damsel in distress.” Dean said, carrying him towards the doors.

“Does that make you Prince Charming?” Castiel asked.

“Shut _up,_ ” Dean told him. Castiel buried his face in Dean’s chest, inhaling the familiar scent of his cologne, still discernible under all the blood and sweat.

Dean carried him to their car, depositing him into the front seat gently before driving home. He insisted on carrying Cas upstairs as well, despite Castiel’s protests that he can ride an elevator by himself, thank you very much. Inside, he laid Castiel on the wide king bed, eliciting more protests from Cas that he wasn’t a “fucking Disney princess.”

Dean relieved him of what was left of his suit with gentle fingers (“stupid bastard. I liked that suit,” he muttered. Evidently he shared Cas’ opinion) before cleaning all the cuts. Castiel hissed as Dean applied some sort of liquid-y substance to each cut before bandaging them up. “I can’t do much about the bruises,” Dean confessed, though he did slather some kind of cream on them.

“That’s going to leave scars, isn’t it?” Cas asked.

“Yeah,” Dean sounded almost sad. Castiel had suspected as much, after all, that had been Crowley’s intention in case Castiel managed to survive. He would bear another man’s marks on his skin for the rest of his life. It angered him. This body belonged to Dean. Crowley had no right to leave marks on it.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I know you don’t like –“

“Cas,” Dean interrupted him. “It doesn’t matter.” He looked sincere, green eyes staring into Cas as he said it, and Castiel wanted so badly to believe it. He let himself drift off into sleep. He woke up sore the next morning and started it off by groaning. Dean was at his side, helping him get up and dress. He’d even suggested Castiel spend the day in bed, but Castiel didn’t like that idea. “I’m not fucking fragile, Dean,” he said, making his way painfully into the kitchen for coffee.

He spent the next few days convalescing. Dean kept him company, entertaining him with movies and books and talk, but Castiel hated being weak and injured.

Slowly, his cuts healed, though he could hardly say that his body felt whole again. They still had sex, after that, but it was…different. Dean no longer fucked him possessively against every surface, no longer whispered “mine” and made him repeat it. He fucked him slowly, and if Castiel didn’t know better he would say Dean was making love to him. But he knew Dean didn’t make love. Dean was simply fucking him in the most noncommittal way possible. He was no longer laying a claim to Castiel’s body with each fuck. What was there to claim? Crowley had written his name all over Castiel’s body with each cut.

 “Come whenever you want,” Dean whispered to him as he fucked Castiel slowly on their bed. Castiel waited until Dean came to follow him, but his orgasm brought him no joy. He lay on the bed, looking away from Dean. If Dean noticed – and Castiel was sure he did – he said nothing. The subject hung in the air, unspoken. Castiel never refused Dean, though he was becoming steadily more and more uninterested in sex with him. Each time they were together, it felt like such a gaping nothing that Castiel didn’t know what to do with it.

Their partnership in crime was at a bit of a standstill too – Castiel could hardly fulfill his part of the deal with the marks now on his body. Nobody in their right mind wanted a hooker with scars. Nobody else wanted his body now, nobody else for Dean to kill for touching Cas. In a way, it could be a relief, not having to live with the worry that eventually Dean would no longer want him, having been touched by so many men. But all Castiel could do was hate it.

He still went with Dean on some jobs, stood as a lookout and kept him company. But much of their usual method had flown out the window.

Castiel found himself moody and angry, wandering around the apartment – and around London – and trying to find things to kick. However hard Dean tried to hide it, he didn’t _want_ him anymore. Castiel was useless in every way possible. He hated it. He hated looking at Dean and being reminded of everything that had been, and he started avoiding Dean. And, because that left a big gaping hole in his life, he filled it with alcohol. He knew Dean noticed, but didn’t say anything, just watched as Castiel went through their cabinet of expensive bottles.

Today it was whiskey. Jack Daniel’s. He could probably drink better, but he really didn’t care. He’d had a good portion of the bottle already when Dean came into the room.

“Dean.” The sight of Dean had ceased to rejoice him as it once did, reminding him of what he couldn’t be for Dean anymore.

“Cas, give that here,” he snatched the bottle out of Castiel’s hands. “Look at you, completely gone already.”

Castiel shrugged. “Does it matter?”

“Yeah, Cas, it matters.”

“I’m sorry I’m not good enough for you, Dean. Why don’t you go find yourself a few hookers? Some hot ones? They won’t be a _mess_ like me,” he said, gesturing at himself and knowing that Dean understood that he meant more than just the drinking.

“Goddamit, Cas.” Dean slammed him into a wall, and it took him too ridiculously long to realize that that’s what had happened. His head was spinning, and he blinked several times before Dean’s face slammed into focus. “Stop this. _All of it._ I don’t want to see you like this.”

“I’m sorry,” Cas whispered. He was sorry, so sorry, for everything he couldn’t be.

“Damn it, Cas, stop being _sorry_ for everything!”

“But – “

“I still want you, Cas.”

“No, you don’t,” he retorted.

“Yes, I _do,_ ” Dean insisted. Why did he keep insisting? He didn’t have to lie.

Castiel shook his head. “No. You don’t _want_ me. Not like before.”

Dean stared at him.

“The way you’ve been, lately…it’s as if you don’t actually want me. Like I’m replaceable. You fuck me like any other hooker.”

“Cas. It’s not like that. I…” he paused, searching for words. “It’s not because I don’t want you anymore. It’s because I’m – “ Dean stopped again. Finally, he managed to say “I’m not indifferent to you.” Castiel watched, open-mouthed, as Dean danced around the world “feelings.” “What happened with Crowley made me realize it,” he added.

 “Oh.” Castiel stared at Dean, wondering if his alcohol-drenched brain was causing him to imagine things. He didn’t think he could bear this if it was a dream.

“Dean,” he said. He needed Dean to understand, needed Dean desperately, but his head was spinning and his words were slurring and he was really not in a good state to be having this discussion.  “I need you to _want_ me. To _own_ me,” he managed to say.

He watched comprehension dawn slowly on Dean’s face. “You kinky bastard,” he said.

“You’re only finding this out now?” his brain supplied before he could process it.

“No, but…doesn’t matter, Cas. You’re mine. I promise.”

Dean helped him stumble to bed, forced him to drink a glass of water, though Castiel doubted it would do anything to alleviate the inevitable hangover, and put him into bed. He lay down beside him, a hand thrown over Castiel. “I’ll fuck you properly tomorrow,” he whispered into Castiel’s ear before they both fell asleep.

The next day brought, unsurprisingly, one hell of a hangover. Castiel downed a breakfast of several ibuprofens before making coffee and clinging to the mug like life depended on it. Dean was already in the kitchen, watching him with a small smile of amusement as he waited for the pills to kick in.

“It’s what you get for drinking half a bottle of my whiskey,” Dean told him.

“Shut up,” Castiel retorted angrily, then smiled. It sounded so much like their habitual banter that he could’ve even be angry.

Dean kept his word about fucking him properly. He even even hit him, hard enough to make him sprawl on the bed, and when Castiel looked up at him in surprise and arousal, Dean was on him, pinning his wrists to the bed in one swift movement. He fucked Castiel as if he wanted to split him in two, and it hurt and it burned and it tore him apart and he wanted to weep with joy.  “Mine,” Dean growled into his ear. There was a steely glint in his green eyes.He was fast and brutal, and Castiel knew this wouldn’t last; he clung to every second of it like his life depended on it. And yet it lasted longer than he had expected. His orgasm threatened to rip out of him as much as he tried to hold on to it, and when Dean finally, _finally_ whispered “come” into his ear, he thought he would drown under the waves of pleasure racking his body. He could feel himself shaking and closed his eyes and surrendered to it.

When he finally opened his eyes, he was met with the sight of Dean looking down at him. He seemed pleasantly amused.

 “Thank you,” Castiel whispered.

“Don’t mention it.”

After that, Dean seemed intent on making up for all of the lovemaking he’d done by bending Cas over whenever he felt like it and fucking him. The dining table, the kitchen counter, the back of the couch, even the balcony, became particularly familiar to him over the next few days. Each time was fast and brutal and completely consuming, and each time he was left a shaking, shuddering wreck, held up by Dean lest he crumple to the floor.

And after that, their life acquired some semblance of its former glory. Actually, it was even better than before. The delicate partnership they’d established had been replaced by an understanding between them. They spent even more time together, relishing each other’s company with no need for distractions.

There was still one thing Castiel wanted to make everything perfect, though. The afternoon he had chosen to suggest it found them both on the couch as the English rain fell adamantly outside. They weren’t doing much, simply lounging around on a lazy afternoon.

“Dean?” Cas ventured, the word hanging lazily in the air between them.

“Hmm?”

Castiel sat up, moving to straddle Dean’s thighs as he sat on the couch and look into his eyes. He still loved sitting this way. After all, this was how they’d met – with Cas in Dean’s lap. Dean’s hands lifted almost automatically to rest on his hips.

“I want you to leave a mark on me. A permanent one.”

He could tell from Dean’s face that Dean was ready to agree, though he didn’t say anything.

“A tattoo or a brand, something like that,” he suggested.

Dean nodded. “A brand I could do myself. A tattoo I’d have to pay someone to do.”

“A brand, then.”

“Cas.” Dean looked at him with concern. “I want to, but you have no idea how much that’s going to hurt.”

Castiel shrugged. “I don’t care.”

“Okay.” Dean smiled, pulling him into a kiss. “Okay,” he murmured against Castiel’s lips.

The brand took a few days to fashion. Dean had a particular symbol, one that he sometimes left on kills when he wanted to leave a signature, a sort of calling card for somebody possibly interested in his services. The mark was a pentacle inside of what Castiel described as a sun. Dean had inscribed it on some of the bullets he used, and, he confessed to Cas, he had carved it into someone’s skin a few times, back when he still killed by slitting a throat instead of taking a clean shot.

Finally, the day they’d decided on came.  Castiel removed his shirt nervously – he still didn’t like showing off his body, with all of its scars, even now. He watched as Dean placed the brand in the fireplace that they rarely used.

 “Here.” Dean tossed him a bottle of pills. “Painkillers.  You’ll need them.”

“I want to feel it, Dean. All of it.”

“Don’t be an idiot, Cas. Take them now. You’ll thank me by the time they kick in.”

Castiel downed two pills obediently, then went to lie on the bed. It was deceptively comfortable for what he knew was about to happen. He heard Dean approach, holding the glowing iron in his hand. Castiel took a deep breath, eyeing it in expectation; to his surprise, Dean didn’t proceed straight to business. Instead, he leaned over and kissed Cas, deeply, gently, placing a hand into his hair. Castiel looked up into Dean’s eyes expectantly.

Slowly, one hand still in Castiel’s hair, Dean brought the brain down and placed it against his skin. They’d decided on a spot just below the collarbone, where it could be easily hidden and easily revealed.

Dean had warned him that it would hurt, but it _hurt._ He threw his head back, letting out a small howl, as tears stung the corners of his eyes. “Shhh, it’s okay, Cas.” Dean’s voice was soft, gentle, and he closed his eyes, letting it wash over him. “It’s going to be beautiful, I know,” he said, his hand still in Castiel’s hair.

It lasted only a few seconds before Dean removed the brand, but his skin stung and smarted and Castiel forced himself to breathe in and out. “Hush. It looks beautiful, Cas,” Dean murmured comfortingly, moving his hand through his hair in a calming motion. “I love it, Cas. I can’t believe you let me do that.” He sat on the bed, murmuring comforting words and offering gentle touches.

Slowly, the pain faded away as the pills kicked in, and in a drowsy, medication-induced haze, he drifted off to sleep. When he woke, his body screamed in protest, but Dean was there at his side, murmuring soothing words and offering more pain pills.

With Dean’s help, he got through the painful first few days. It healed wonderfully, leaving a perfect mark. He looked into the mirror proudly. Dean was right. It was beautiful. He touched it reverently. Dean’s mark was on his skin, forever. Nobody could ever take that away.

After that, Castiel stopped hiding beneath layers of clothing. He ceased to hate undressing and began instead to show the mark off proudly. Every so often, he found his hand wandering towards it, running over the uneven pattern on his skin. Dean loved it too, evidently, finding every possible occasion to sneak his hand under Castiel’s shirt to touch it. He ran a hand over it every time they fucked and every time they lay in bed together afterwards, his fingers simply wandering over Castiel’s skin until they found their resting place.

Tonight, they’d left the curtain of their bedroom open, and the floor to ceiling windows let in the starlight as they lay in bed together, Castiel head on Dean’s chest as Dean’s hand rested in its habitual place. Castiel felt blissfully sore and worn out, Dean having fucked him several times tonight.

 “Hey, Cas,” Dean broke the silence.

“Hmm?”

“Remember that time I told you I hired hookers when you weren’t around?”

Castiel remembered. He remembered only too well, back when he really had only been a fucktoy for Dean. Back when Castiel thought he could leave Dean. He hated thinking about that time, because it terrified him. It was a time when he might’ve just decided to let it all go. To let Dean go.

“Yeah, I remember.”

“I lied,” he confessed. “There hasn’t been anyone else since I met you.”

Castiel was stunned. He propped himself up, looking at Dean in the moonlit darkness of the room.

 “Why?” he asked.

“I didn’t want you to realize that I…well.” Dean cleared his throat. “Needed you,” he finished, looking away.

Castiel leaned down to kiss him. Dean pulled him close, pressing their bodies together and savoring the taste of Castiel’s lips. It was the best they could do, as far as chick flick moments went.

They fell asleep in each other’s arms. The sunlight woke them the next day, providing a break from the grey English rain. Castiel woke first and lay in bed, contemplating Dean. He looked so peaceful, with the sunlight falling on his freckled skin. Then Castiel disentangled himself from Dean and went to the kitchen to make breakfast. Neither he nor Dean could make it through the morning without coffee, and he filled two mugs with generous helpings of caffeinated ambrosia.

Dean walked into the kitchen just as Castiel was frying the bacon.

“Morning,” he greeted, coming up behind Cas. He pressed himself against Castiel, fingering the brand on Castiel’s skin as he kissed his neck.

“Morning,” Castiel responded, leaning back into Dean and savoring the feel of Dean’s fingers on the mark on his skin.

It was almost like they were a normal couple, Castiel thought.

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry to kill Crowley off so unceremoniously. He probably deserved better, but hey, Dean and Cas also needed to survive. 
> 
> Hope you enjoyed! At this point, though, I have absolutely no idea where the story would go from here (and I actually mean it this time) so I dunno if there's going to be more. Unless you brilliant people have some ideas you want to stick in the comments.


End file.
